


Overwatch Drabble Hub

by Ruriska



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Deadlock!Jesse, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Shimadacest, Sibling Incest, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:24:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 8,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8193577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruriska/pseuds/Ruriska
Summary: I wanted somewhere to chuck my drabbles into so they wouldn't get lost on Tumblr and this is the place. Characters and tags will update with any new additions.If anyone ever wants to send me drabble prompts, feel free! (No guarantees but my ask box is open)





	1. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse/Reaper with implied sexual content and sad feels

Every part of him ached.

His scalp where his hair had been taken in a rough grip, tugged viciously in whatever direction was pleased. His fingers where they had scrambled to take hold against the brick wall, anchoring and giving him something to push back with. His knees where he had been forced down, each thrust scraping him forward across hard concrete.

Every part of him hurt but he didn’t care.

He’d felt wanted, just for that brief moment, with Reaper’s hot breathy chuckle on the back of his neck. With claws in his side, tearing through cloth and flesh, marking him. The deeper ones might scar; another addition to the collection.

He’d been needed and that was worth the pain.

It had always been worth the pain.

McCree limped his way back to the transport, pulled himself together as best he could. He lit a cigar, let it hang indolently from his lips. Some fella got lucky, he would laugh, messed me up a bit. They wouldn’t ask, even if they noticed the stains that weren’t blood or the bite mark on his neck.

They wouldn’t ask because this wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.


	2. Simple Geometry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse/Hanzo with fluff and voice lines.

“It is simple geometry.”

McCree stared down at the sharp lines of the equation that Hanzo had sketched out for his benefit. Every intersection had a letter attached, though what they represented exactly, he didn’t have a clue.

“Honey, I don’t think that means what you think it means.” He scratched under his hat and squinted, as if that would bring a sudden clarity. “Simple geometry is a… whaddya call it? Yeah,” he snapped his fingers, “an oxymoron.”

“It is not.” Hanzo stabbed the page with his index finger, scowling fiercely. “It is explained,” another stab for emphasis, “right there.”

McCree looked down again and gave a slow shake of his head. “Nope, it ain’t,” he drawled.

“Look,” Hanzo raced his fingers along the line, his voice slow as if he was explaining to a child. “You asked me how my scatter arrows work. The trajectory is predicted right here. Everything travels along predetermined lines. It is not as you phrased it, ‘a damn lucky shot’.”

“You tellin’ me that when that thing scatters all over, you know where it’s gonna land?”

“Of course.”

McCree leaned back in his seat. “I call bull.”

Hanzo’s brows drew together in confusion. “You call what?”

“Bull. As is _bull_ shit.

“Do not insult me, Jesse. You have never doubted my skills before.”

“Sure but-”

“What happened during the mission yesterday? Walk me through it.”

“Wellll, I was up to my ass in alligators and things were starting to look dire, so I called for backup and then your arrows came a’whizzin’ about and left me with only one guy left to shoot.” He mimed his gun toting action with his right hand. “And I thought, hell, that was a damn lucky shot.”

Hanzo snorted his displeasure. “It was not. I would not put you in danger.” Well, didn’t that just warm a fella right down to his toes. “The moment I shot my arrow, I knew where they would all land and who they would kill.”

McCree pulled off his hat and held it to his chest, his smile dazzling in his tanned face.

“Well, hell, sugar, I believe you. You’re pretty handy with that bow.”

Hanzo flushed at the compliment and fussed with the sheet of paper, covered in lines and calculations that McCree didn’t understand a bit of but represented love and care all the same.

“Yes,” Hanzo agreed. “I am.”


	3. Job Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McHanzo, my contribution to the collective squeal over the Halloween voice lines.

The door was burnt and cracked but unbreached.

Hanzo pressed his back against it, slid down when his body gave in to its exhaustion and stared up at the lightening sky, the dawn a soft promise. 

The gunslinger joined him a moment later, flopping down inelegantly, shoulder to shoulder. “How ‘bout that drink, partner?” He drawled, weary but cheerful.

Hanzo wordlessly unhooked the gourd and handed it over.

McCree drank noisily, ending with a satisfied gasp. “S’good stuff. Hits the spot.”

“You earned it,” Hanzo informed him graciously as he accepted the gourd back. He drank as well, a smaller swig and handed it over once more.

Nearby the alchemist was scolding Soldier 76 for his last desperate rush and patching up the last of his wounds. They would have been overwhelmed without McCree’s last stand; surrounded by a glow of death, his lips curled into a grin. _Bang_.

“Your gun,” Hanzo requested and when McCree dropped the heavy revolver into his waiting hand, he opened the cylinder. Six chambers, no hidden compartments, nothing odd. “I do not understand. You shot down ten of our enemies at one time.”

McCree shrugged. “Custom made.” When Hanzo continued stare at him with an unconvinced frown, he grinned. “How have you got two huge dragons in your arm?”

Hanzo gave the gun back, traded it for the nearly empty gourd. “I am a Shimada.”

“That you are.” McCree shifted heavily against him and Hanzo didn’t mind.

He finished the sake and leaned into the touch.

They sat together until the morning arrived and turned the world gold.


	4. Royal Flush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree/Hanzo with poker because you can't tell me McCree isn't the best card player gambler person and banned from every major casino in the world.

“Read ‘em and weep, boys.”

McCree presented his cards with a flourish, fanning them out on the table for both his opponents to see and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin.

A royal flush.

Again.

“You are cheating,” Hanzo accused, dropping his own cards in disgust.

Beside him, Genji calmly placed his down. “I warned you he was a good player.”

“Besides,” Jesse crooned, his fingers laced together on his belly, “it’s only cheatin’ if you get caught.” He grin widened. “Can you prove it?”

Hanzo glowered back, probably trying to pinpoint the moment McCree must have swiped a card or pulled one out of his sleeve but he finally had to allow a sullen, “no.”

“You know the rules.”

“This is ridiculous,” Hanzo complained.

“You agreed to play strip poker and the name ain't exactly subtle. Can’t pansy out now.” McCree looked far too smug. “You’ve already lost the jacket. Time for the shirt.”

Hanzo motioned sharply at his brother, who was sitting quietly and yet somehow radiated amusement from behind his mask. “Genji is playing and he does not even have any clothes!”

“Guess he came prepared.”

“You are a bad man, Jesse McCree.”

McCree only laughed. “Naw, honey, I just want to see you take your clothes off. Can’t blame a man for that now, can we?”

Hanzo’s curled his fingers under his grey shirt, with its boldly printed Overwatch logo and tugged upwards the hem upwards. It was just a hint of skin but McCree’s settled on him, hot and expectant. “I suppose not.”


	5. Merciful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercy/Reaper, with evil!mercy

She is a beacon of light; with her wings outstretched and her stance proud, her glow pushing back the darkness of the night. Watchful and waiting, the butt of her staff resting against the earth.

A shadow takes shape, a lurking wraith that twists and turns, slithers towards her until it is coiled at her feet. She looks down and smiles, a soft and gentle turn of her lips.

The shadow becomes a solid thing; a man on his knees made of flesh and blood, his masked face turned upwards. “ _Madre_ ,” the creature growls, beseeching.

Her smile is the sun.

Gently she reaches for him, pushes back his hood, unclasps his mask and drops it aside. The tips of her fingers glide gently across his face; a remnant of an old life, a different person. She maps out each scar with her fingers, each dip and furrow, each gouge into the skin. He is her best work, she has told him before.

“ _Bra gjort_ , Reaper,” she coos. Her fingers tilt his chin up higher, her thumb brushing against his lower lip. “I am proud of you.”

The words almost chase the ever present chill of his soul. They stir up a deep and desperate need in what remains of his heart and he purrs from the feeling, a grating rumble from deep in his chest.

The angel laughs.

“Your attack worked marvelously,” she tells him and her joy, his reward, is an even brighter smile. “Winston has recalled Overwatch.” The knowledge that he has pleased her, makes him twitch with longing. The touch of her fingers is never enough.

She senses his need and murmurs a soft, “ _Schatz_.”

Darling, his mind translates for him as he reaches for her, claws gripping at her hips and his face nuzzling into a thigh. He drags in the smell of her, taking in as much of her light as he can before she leaves him again.

Her fingers run across his scalp, urging him closer. “We will all be together again. Oh, how I’ve missed them.” He hears her longing and cannot feel the same but what makes her happy, he will endeavour to provide. “Now we will destroy them from the inside. One by one.” That he will enjoy.

He rumbles an agreement into her thigh.

“Perhaps I will even make you another friend.”

The way she made him, brought back from death; a memory of blood and ashes and pain. He trembles with it, the hazy recall of times past, tinted by anger and hatred. She soothes it away with another swipe of her hand. So merciful, his mother, so kind.

“Precious Gabriel,” she laughs and the name is a knife, sudden and cruel.

“Mercy,” he begs.

“My Reaper,” she relents. “Hush now, I’ve got you.”


	6. Merciless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercy/Reaper with added McCree. Violence and blood. Probably gonna make a few of these ones.

It has been a long time since he has been in a situation this desperate.

There are no guns left and his form is breaking apart, body shifting rapidly between solid and wraith as it tries to undo the damage of multiple gunshots. The damned cowboy is relentless. He is even quicker than Reaper remembers, mirthless in his duty to cut down the ghost of his old mentor.

He doesn’t realize he’s cornered until his back hits the wall and he is looking down the barrel of the gun. Reaper snarls behind his mask, looks past Peacekeeper at the cowboy. He is not unharmed. Shotgun bullets have torn into his side, there is blood dripping down his face and the hat is gone, lost somewhere during the scuffle.

“‘Bout time someone put an end to this,” McCree grunts, fingers hovering over the trigger. He cocks his head, listens to something through his communicator. “Yeah, I’ve got him.” The cowboy looks sad but there is no mercy in his eyes. “Rest in peace, Gabe.”

The name burns him but he has nowhere to run and he is tired. He sinks in on himself, crouches in the dust and simply waits.

The wait isn’t long.

“Jesse.” The soft voice is a balm. It tells him everything will be okay. Do not fear. “Wait.”

“Not gonna do that, Angela.” McCree doesn’t turn around. “This is how it’s gotta be.” It is his fatal mistake.

“I understand,” she says and the gun goes off.

Peacekeeper tumbles from shocked fingers. The cowboy drops to his knees, both sets of fingers, metal and flesh, pressing against his throat at the ragged hole that has been made. He garbles something unintelligible, a wet breath that starts with ‘ha’.

Mercy is standing behind him and she reaches around, pressing her hand against his tenderly, as if to also stem the flow of blood. The other hand holsters the gun, plucks his comm off his ear and drops it, to be crushed beneath her boot. “Silly,” she tuts. “I can’t have you ruining my good work.”

Reaper finds his feet and gives a low pleased rumble, claws reaching out to finish the job. His mother is here and he will take vengeance in her presence.

“ _Nein_ ,” Mercy commands and Reaper pulls back sharply, trembling with frustration. There are bullets still exiting his body from earlier; hitting the ground with little ‘plops’, the shadows filling in the holes. He wants to spill guts across the floor.

“Why?” He demands.

“You have been apart from each other for too long. I will fix that.” She kisses the top of Jesse’s head and jealousy settles in his cold heart like a million thorns.

Jesse McCree is dying. Shivers run through him, his face pale and slack, eyes wide with a mixture of anger and despair as he feels his life slipping away.

But he will not be allowed to leave this earth. Just like Gabriel Reyes before him.

“We will be a family again.” Mercy smiles brightly and Reaper will not destroy her joy.

“Yes,” he rumbles, slowly placing his own hand on top of hers where it rests on McCree’s. Blood oozes out between their fingers. “A family.”


	7. Linger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo/Genji, Shimadacest. If sibling incest ain't your thing, I suggest you don't read this one. Thanks!

Genji is drunk.

He always is when they do this; when he stumbles into Hanzo’s room in the early hours of the morning reeking of alcohol and cigarettes.

His kisses are sloppy and eager. Hanzo hates the way he tastes but he reciprocates anyway, laps it up until he knows the taste will linger on his tongue.

It is a good thing their father demands they sleep on traditional futons. He can smother Genji’s moans with his mouth or hand but he doubts he could stop a bed from squeaking, not with how frenzied and desperate they become. 

Sometimes Hanzo wonders if Genji is really as drunk as he seems. His fingers are too deft, too smooth. They don’t fumble anymore, not like the first time this happened.

They won’t speak about this afterwards.

They never do.

He once overheard Genji joking about the love bite on his neck to one of the guards, as he made a groping gesture with his hands and described the ‘hot foreign blonde’ he’d fucked.

Hanzo had sucked that mark onto his skin the night before as Genji whimpered beneath him.

Now he makes more. He memorizes each inch of skin, each roll of their hips and every gasp of breath. Genji groans out his name as he comes and Hanzo follows, cherishes those few precious moments with his brother in his arms and no barriers between them.

Genji leaves without a word or backwards glance.

Hanzo wishes he was the drunk one and could pretend he doesn’t care.

Instead he lets the lust and self-loathing simmer, feels his anger like a pulse under his skin and wait for the days to pass until the next time.


	8. Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo/Genji, Shimadacest with hair brushing and soft kisses. 
> 
> If sibling incest ain't your thing, I suggest you don't read this one. Thanks!

Genji loves brushing his brother’s hair. It is long, dark and silken; falling over his fingers in waves.

Ever since he was child he has been entranced by the process, taking the brush into his small hands, his brother kneeling on the ground before him. The hiss when he caught a knot, followed by his mumbled apology. A quiet closeness that was often denied them anywhere else.

It became a habit. Each night before bed, no matter what else either of them had planned, Hanzo would kneel and Genji would settle behind him. He would gather the hair together first, fingers ghosting past Hanzo’s neck as he swept the dark locks back; one side and then the other. Then he would brush, a slow and steady process.

Now should be no different.

And yet it is.

Today his fingers tremble as he parts Hanzo’s hair to reveal the soft skin at the back of his neck. He leans in, first just his breath and then his lips, leaving shy, barely there kisses. His heart flutters in his chest, like the butterflies living his belly. The touch calls forth a sigh, just a wispy exhale. Hanzo’s shoulders rise and fall.

They say nothing.

Genji plants another kiss, bolder this time.

Then he pulls away, adoringly sweeps the hair back into place and lifts the brush. He continues with the familiar task until Hanzo’s hair is a perfect shimmering wave. When he is pleased by his work, Genji puts the brush aside but he doesn’t move away, instead he rests his forehead on Hanzo’s shoulder.

Wordlessly Hanzo reaches a hand back, palm against the floor, and their fingers entwine.

They breathe in unison.

There is a noise, far off laughter from another room; it breaks the spell and Genji pulls away, longing tight in his chest. He leaves Hanzo kneeling, refuses to look at him, fearing what he will find on his face, as he walks from the room. _Tomorrow_ ; he makes the promise with his trembling heart, his lips still tingling as if burnt from the touch of his brother’s skin.


	9. Never Cry Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo/Genji, Shimadacest gift drabble! Hope this brightens your day!
> 
> If sibling incest ain't your thing, I suggest you don't read this one. Thanks!

Genji does not cry often.

But when he does it is with great heaving sobs that come up from his belly and steal his every breath. Today he cries over past transgressions. _Red on his hands. Bright and damning. Screams in his ears. Begging for mercy._ A lifetime of regret that overwhelms him at the strangest times. He always hides himself away somewhere safe until it passes. A habit from his youth.

When was a boy, his brother would find him crammed into a cupboard or under the bed. There was no mercy. Only a firm hand pulling him out into the light, revealing the tears on his flushed cheeks, demanding he be _stronger_.

Now it is different.

There has been many years between them, enough time to repair the struggles of their youth. When Hanzo finds him, Genji hears the scrape of metal boots against the side of the building, seeking him out in the tiny alcove he’s found for himself. There’s not much room but Genji shifts as far as he can, creating extra space.

Then Hanzo is there, blocking the light; two sets of eyes, the cold dead wolf gaze and the warm brown that sweeps over him, assessing. He clucks his tongue. Years ago Genji might have thought it to be a reproachful sound but it isn’t and he knows that now.

His brother pushes his way into Genji’s space and they rearrange themselves until Genji is sitting in his lap, head leaning back against his strong shoulder. The arms that hold him are safe and warm. The wolf fur against his cheek is soft and Genji reaches up, sinks his fingers into it and holds on tight. He pets it, enjoying the the feeling and if he wasn’t so comfortable, he would turn to reach the perked ears. Later, perhaps.

Hanzo noses at the top of his head and sighs, a deep release of breath. He does not ask why Genji is crying. It doesn’t matter. They both know the sorrow of remorse. Instead he offers comfort, his presence enough to bring the tears to an end and let Genji put the pain aside once more.

When Genji turns his head slightly to bury his nose into the underside of Hanzo’s bearded jaw, he marvels again at how the years have only made his brother more handsome. Time has not worn him down, it has made him stronger.

“Thank you,” Genji murmurs, voice muffled.

Hanzo’s response is a possessive rumble, almost a growl, that morphs into a deep chuckle. Genji feels it run through him all the way down to his toes.

“I am always here for you,” the older Shimada tells him, grip tight and breath hot. “You will never cry alone again.”


	10. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo/Genji, Shimadacest angst!
> 
> If sibling incest ain't your thing, I suggest you don't read this one. Thanks!

Genji looks thoroughly debauched.

He stares back at Hanzo from his sprawled position on the love hotel bed, eyes hooded and dark. Hanzo lets his gaze skim across him, tries not to focus too hard on the soft, wet cock between his thighs and the cum splattered across his belly. The marks bitten into his skin and the sheen of sweat on his chest that shimmers with every deep breath his brother pulls into his open mouth.

A jukebox in the corner is playing some inane pop song and the large TV opposite the bed is showing a gangbang porno, muted so that the girls scream and moan in silence. The other two participants in his brother’s little party have already run off.

“What is it this time?” Genji asks, his voice slurred. It pulls Hanzo’s focus back to him and he can’t help but linger on the soft pale flesh of his inner thigh, especially when Genji spreads his legs. “I don’t know why you bother. If it’s about the meeting, Father doesn’t care.” 

“I care and the rest of the clan cares. You need to show more respect for your position.”

This is an argument they have had many times, the words so routine that they no longer have meaning. Genji scoffs and rolls over onto his belly. Hanzo gets a glimpse of his hole, still red and stretched from being fucked, and the swell of his balls.

He digs his nails into his palm until he breaks skin.

“Look at you,” he snaps,” you’re,” _beautiful_ , “disgusting.” 

Genji flinches from the word and buries his face in a pillow.

The regret and self-hatred in Hanzo’s chest will eat him up one day but he keeps talking because it is the only thing stopping him from giving in to the twisted desire in his belly. The urge to place kisses down Genji’s back and claim him is enough to make him tremble.

“Father does not care because you have proven yourself useless. Despite all that love and attention, you have grown up to be nothing. You are a shame to our clan.” There is blood in his palm, hot and painful. “You are a shame to _me_.”

Another shudder runs through Genji and for a moment Hanzo suspects he is crying but when Genji turns his head, his eyes are dry. “As I’d ever be anything else to you,” he responds softly, too exhausted to fight back. “Go back home and be the useful son, the good son. Just leave me to my shame. I like it.”

“If you would just,” _be mine_ , “stand by me as my brother, we could-”

“No.”

Now Hanzo flinches. They stare at each other; so many words left unspoken, too many needless ones said. He doesn’t know how to save this, not without caving in. 

So he walks away, and he will keep walking away, until it is no longer an option.


	11. Domestic Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McHanzo, absolutely 300% inspired by the recent Matt Mercer interview because the idea of them being a cute couple who argue over decor is right up my alley.

“No,” Hanzo snaps.

At the vehement ‘do not argue with’ me tone, Jesse turns his head to look at his frowning husband and then back at the painting he’s still holding up against the wall. It’s a beautiful scene, all golds and browns, wild horses galloping across the plains.

“No?” He questions, arching an eyebrow, making himself look far more confused than he actually is.

Hanzo isn’t buying it. “No,” he repeats.

“You don’t like it?”

“I hate it.”

Jesse huffs his displeasure, arms a little tired after holding the picture up for so long but still resolutely keeping it there, as if the longer Hanzo has to stare at it, the more likely he is to change his mind.

“I let you put up that boring paper thing in the bedroom,” he points out. “It’s all just black scribbles.”

“It is an ancient Japanese proverb written upon a paper scroll that I shipped all the way from Japan and-”

“Alright, alright! It’’s a special paper thing, got it. Well, this,” he hefts the picture up higher, “is a marvellous, uh, visage expressing the wildness and strength of the wild west though the dynamic running of the horses.”

“That is not a _visage_ , Jesse.” Hanzo reaches out to grab Jesse’s face between his thumb and forefinger and squeeze, nails digging slightly into each cheek. “ _This_ is a visage. And that,” he let’s go to flick a dismissive hand at the painting, “is an abomination.”

“No, it ain’t!”

“Yes, it is.”

“You didn’t let me me put up them old cowboy posters and now I can’t even have the running horses? You’re killin’ me darlin’.”

“As I recall, I said you could put up the old cowboy posters as long as you did not buy the cow print lampshade. You opted for the lamp shade.”

“Which mysteriously disappeared,” Jesse accuses with a pout.

“Such a shame,” Hanzo deadpans.

“Which means I’m down one item and while I’m really liking this picture, I’m sure as hell fond of that rug we saw that other day. Know the one, Han? With the big ol’ sheriff’s badge and the horseshoe border? It’d look real good in the living room under your fancy coffee table. What’d you say?”

Hanzo’s lips press into a thin line as he reconsiders the merits of the horse painting. Jesse holds back his grin with visible effort, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“I will get the nail and hammer,” Hanzo announces grandly and Jesse lets his toothy grin free as his husband saunters away with his chin up.

“You’re a real peach,” he calls fondly and then looks triumphantly back at the painting. He imagines one of the horses gives him a wink.


	12. Respawn Issue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift drabble of Deadlock!McCree meeting current!Hanzo based on the [wonderful art of noxdrawstrash](http://noxdrawstrash.tumblr.com/post/154240816562/results-from-the-last-couple-streaming-sessions). (P.S: Nothing Nox draws is actually trash.)

Hanzo turns the corner and there is he is, beaten and handcuffed, a livid bruise over one eye. His lank hair falling messily around his face and his teeth gritted in a snarl directed at everyone in the vicinity. Nobody looks at him, too busy discussing the young man to bother with staring him down.

There’s something about him, something familiar that Hanzo puzzles over as he pauses in the hallway. The young man spots him first and scowls, a petulant challenge despite his state of defeat. “The fuck you lookin’ at?”

The voice isn’t deep enough and Hanzo has never been on the receiving end of a look that hostile but he recognises him anyway, takes a step back with his surprise. “Jesse?!”

The young man, no, he’s a boy really, surely no older than eighteen, looks momentarily taken aback before a smug little smirk turns his lips up. “My reputation precedes me,” he spits cockily.

Angela and Winston have stopped talking to watch the exchange, looking equal parts guilty and worried. Soldier 76 is, as usual, unreadable behind his mask and is looming behind Jesse, clearly ready to give him another black eye if necessary. It instantly sets Hanzo on edge.

“How?” He demands, his hand cutting through the air towards Jesse. “How is Jesse McCree this… this _boy_? Where is the real one?”

Jesse responds first, a heated, “up yours old man!”

Hanzo’s nostrils flare in anger and Jesse pokes out his tongue.

“There was an accident,” Angela steps in to explain, her finger tapping at the clipboard she’s holding. “Respawn issue. Winston and I just need to work out how to fix it. No need to worry.” Her fake doctor smile wilts when she looks back towards the handcuffed Jesse. “Are the restraints really necessary now, Jack?”

“I’m in charge of security, Angela. They stay on.” Jack shifts his weight behind Jesse. “Don’t want another incident.”

“Incident?” Hanzo asks.

“He attacked Winston.”

Winston chuckles nervously. Hanzo notices for the first time that there’s a new crack in his glasses. “No harm done. Well, a little, perhaps. I… might have lost my temper.”

“He’s a big angry fuckin’ monkey,” Jesse interjects crudely and gets jostled by Jack. “Ow, quit it, asshole.”

They move on to the medbay where Jesse is handcuffed to a chair and Angela and Winston stare at the computers, talking in scientific jargon that Hanzo doesn’t even bother trying understand. He is too busy staring at Jesse, _his_ Jesse McCree. This young ruffian that somehow turns into an affable cowboy. Just this morning McCree had passed him in the hallway on the way to training, tipped his hat and greeted him with a flirtatious, ‘hey darlin’, you’re lookin’ mighty fine!’.

Jesse has noticed the staring and he tilts his chin up in challenge. “Want something ya fuckin’ pervert?”

Hanzo curls his lip in disgust.

_H… how?_

It doesn’t add up.

“Where is your hat?” He demands.

“What fuckin’ hat?”

Hanzo rounds on Angela and Winston in a near panic. “How long will it take to get him back?”

“Give us the day, Hanzo.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and counts backwards from ten. When he opens them again and turns to match Jesse’s glower, he is ready. “Very well.”

Jesse only complains non-stop for the first three hours into the Clint Eastwood movie marathon. He eventually shuts up during Pale Rider, though whether it’s because of the popcorn Hana arrives with or because he’s starting to enjoy it, Hanzo isn’t sure.

It doesn’t matter. Hanzo is going to get his Jesse McCree back one way or the other.


	13. Actions Speak Louder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble gift based on [ this amazing sexy art but kingrepulsive](http://kingrepulsive.tumblr.com/post/159112415098/you-gotta-be-more-careful-on-the-field-mccree) (P.S: not even remotely repulsive)

“You’ll make a full recovery,” Angela had told them; the surety in her voice not enough to counteract the way she had pursed her lips with worry, the way she eyed Jesse one last time before leaving them alone in the infirmary. 

“Thanks, doc,” Jesse had called after her, having brushed off her warnings to ‘please be careful, Jesse’ with a grin and indolent wave of his hand. Apparently a gunshot wound close to his gut was ‘no big deal’, the blood soaking his clothes, the half-delirious ‘Hanzo, you know I fucking love you so goddamn much’ as if he’d been about to die, all just a lark. 

Hanzo wanted to punch him in his already busted lip, wanted to shake some sense into him, wanted to hold him close and kiss him over and over. He did none of those things. Instead he hovered by Jesse’s side and made disapproving sounds at every flippant comment until Angela was gone.

Jesse instantly moved to get up, despite having been ordered to rest, shifting himself to the side of the bed and would have stood if Hanzo hadn’t been there to press him back with a firm hand to his shoulder. 

“You are a damn fool,” he said, voice rough; it was the last thing he would say for a while as he sunk to his knees, expressing his worries and fears the only way he knew how. Words were funny things. He could recite beautiful poetry and proverbs and speak earnestly of the good memories from Hanamura but when he tried to tell someone how much he cared about them, it never came out right.

He settled between Jesse’s thighs, ignored the halfhearted ‘Han, you don’t gotta’ from above and wrapped his mouth around the soft cock he found there. He liked it like this, when it wasn’t so hard to get all the way into his mouth, when he could easily nestle his face in the dark pubic hairs and fill his nose with the sweaty musk he found. He imagined he could stay like this for hours, his tongue slowly massaging, suckling gently like a babe on a teat.

Jesse patted clumsily at his face and hair, cupped his face and rubbed his cheek with his thumb. Hanzo rolled his eyes to look up him and then swatted the offending hand away. 

Jesse grimaced. “I’m real sorry sweetheart,” he murmured, and Hanzo felt tears prick suddenly at the corner of his eyes because McCree _understood_. Fool that he was.

Jesse leaned back on one hand, looked down at him through a hazy half-lidded gaze. His cheeks flushed and breath huffing out through parted lips. Hanzo trailed his hand up his belly, through the dark hair, feeling the muscles shifting beneath the skin. McCree helped him, held the blue gown up and out of his way. No doubt it helped with the view as well.

Jesse’s dick was filling out now, fattening admirably. Hanzo was already intimately familiar with every inch but still marvelled at the size, how just damn fat and pretty it was. ‘Prime cowboy dick,’ McCree had told him the first time he’d shown Hanzo the goods and offered him a good time, a casual encounter in the showers. 

Now he could get to work properly, now he could ease that cock down his throat, fill himself up, give everything to Jesse and make it so there was no distinction between pleasure and ‘please be careful, I love you, I love you so much, I can’t lose you’.


	14. Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McHanzo drabble prequel to [Actions Speak Louder](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8193577/chapters/24173271). Also known as the casual encounter shower scene somebody asked for!

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Even if the timing was unexpected, the voice that echoed off the bathroom tiles was familiar enough that Hanzo didn’t bother to look up from his task. He continued to lather his body in soap, scrubbing diligently along his arms with the foamy loofah.

“How was your mission?” He said by way of greeting, listening as McCree undressed. The clink of his belt, the rustle of cloth and the soft tired grunts that accompanied the action.

“Long and pointless,” McCree replied, ending with a sigh. “So why are you washing up at near two in the mornin’? Seems to me like you’d be better off sleeping.” There was a thoughtful hum. “Ah, that’s right. You sure as hell don’t need your beauty sleep.”

Hanzo almost allowed himself a laugh. It had become a joke of sorts. They’d run into each other during late hours on many different nights - enough lately that Hanzo had come to suspect it was no longer coincidence - and McCree always said the same thing.

He gave an amused ‘hn’ instead.

“I like your little seat. Gotta get me one of those,” McCree said and Hanzo could feel his presence hovering behind him. “I went to a bathhouse last time I was in Japan. Had to cover up my tattoo with a bandaid before I could go in.” Hanzo’s quiet peace was gone. He really didn’t mind. “Probably a good thing Deadlock cut off my arm because there’s no way I’d be hiding that one.” He chuckled, as if talking about the trauma of his past left no mark on his soul.

“They are still very traditional, even today,” Hanzo told him, absentmindedly rubbing soap along his belly.

“Need a hand with your back?”

Hanzo paused, looked over his shoulder. McCree grinned back at him. He had crouched down, already had his hand out in offering. Hanzo wordlessly gave him the loofah.

His back was suddenly a mess of knots, tensed without conscious thought.

The first touch nearly made him flinch but McCree set about his job with professional diligence. There was no space for Hanzo to think about how this was the first touch he had allowed in years that wasn’t a doctor. Even the hand that came down on his shoulder to hold him in place was surprisingly welcome.

McCree scrubbed hard, followed the lines of his muscles as if he was trying to ease out the knots - and it was working. Hanzo found himself melting into the ministrations, head dropping forward, giving better access to his neck. McCree caught on, travelled upwards.

A thumb dug into one of the pressure points of his neck and Hanzo groaned.

The hand on his neck stilled at the sound and Hanzo tilted his head a bit more in a wordless request. McCree continued with a shaky, “mighty tense there, sweetheart.”

It wasn’t until McCree’s hand left his neck, fingers sliding down his back and brushing along his side, that the touch was suddenly startlingly intimate. It was if every nerve was instantly on high alert, every inch of his body focused on those fingers and where they were.

And then they weren’t there at all.

And McCree was no longer behind him.

Hanzo lifted his head, opened his eyes, couldn’t even remember having closed them.

He was presented his first sight of McCree fully naked, walking around him to reach the shower beside Hanzo’s. Taps turned, the shower sprang to life, instantly plastering McCree’s hair to his head as he stood beneath the flow. Hanzo let his hands hang between his knees and watched.

Jesse McCree was a big man.

That was a fact Hanzo had always known.

With the hat, the height, the serape, his loud personality. It all came to Big.

Even naked he lost none of it. He was all long-lean legs and well-earned muscle, broad chest and shoulders littered in old scars. There was hair, on his arms, his legs, a dark swathe of it cutting a line down from his belly button to his -

Hanzo’s gaze flicked back up.

McCree stood idly beneath the shower, watching the inspection in progress, brown gaze uncertain.

Hanzo looked down again.

Yes.

Big. With a capital B.

“I am impressed,” he said.

McCree’s eyes crinkled with delight, his lips curled into a grin. “Prime cowboy dick,” he crowed, reaching down, fingers sliding along his tanned belly and below to hold himself out on display with a wink. 

“I can see.”

Hanzo finally laughed, allowed himself that. Maybe he would allow himself even more.

There was a pregnant pause.

McCree broke the silence, was the first to try and reach out for the opportunity they’d been given, the moment they’d found themselves in. “If you were willing, I’d could give you a good time. I mean, no pressure but I-”

“Yes,” Hanzo interrupted him, stood up from his seat with a soft grunt. He felt cold now, without that warm hand on his back and with the stray droplets from the shower leaving only the faint impression of heat.

“Yes?” McCree repeated, as if unsure. His hand lifted, an abortive movement. Hanzo suspected it was meant to reach for the hat that wasn’t there.

“Yes,” Hanzo repeated, for both their benefit, as he stepped closer, joining him beneath the shower, a mere inch apart. The water washed the soap away, the suds sliding down his body. He inclined his head, towards that welcoming smile, framed by a wild beard. “I would like you to ‘give me a good time’ with,” amusement filled his voice as he stood on his tiptoes, close enough to kiss, “your ‘prime cowboy dick’.”

McCree’s laughter was a pleased rumble. “I think I can oblige.”

Confident hands came to rest on his hips, pulling Hanzo into the promised kiss.

Hanzo went willingly.

It had been a very long time.

He was ready.


	15. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some tender post-battle McReyes!

“You have a problem understanding my orders, McCree?”

Gabriel’s voice grated out raw and angry from where he stood in the bathroom doorway, the usual smooth tone ruined by two hours spent yelling nearly non-stop. As far as secret missions went this one had been one hell of a shitshow and wouldn’t have come close to being called a success without McCree somehow pulling a game-changing move out of the bag with a dangerous mix of of foolishness, bravado and more C-4 then Reyes remembered signing off on.

They’d barely had a chance to recover, were still picking up the pieces of those who hadn’t been quite so lucky and sorting through the remain of the enemy base. That didn’t mean Reyes wasn’t going to take a well-earned ten minutes to thoroughly rip into his errant underling for once again _failing to follow basic goddamn orders_. 

McCree was bent over the sink, no serious injuries but he stunk of blood and acrid smoke. Reyes was pretty sure he’d singed off a good part of his hair, could see the darkened frizzy tips and it was a damn lucky thing his whole head hadn’t lit up like a fucking candle. Water was running from the tap onto McCree’s shaking hands and the sight of it made something in Gabriel’s chest constrict painfully. 

“I don’t know what retreat means to you but when I use the word it means you turn around and fucking run your damn ass out of-” He broke off suddenly, coughed violently in his fist, voice finally giving out. 

McCree turned around, a wobbly smile on that dumb handsome face, a cut over his eye still lazily oozing blood. He swayed as he walked, ears probably still ringing, and once he was close enough, unceremoniously dumped his head onto Reyes’ shoulder. “Sure thing boss,” he croaked. 

Gabriel opened his mouth to speak and felt that telltale tickle in his throat, so he sighed deeply instead; pulled the air into his lungs and let it rush out again. He knew McCree would do it again no matter what he said. He had always been a wild gun, would follow orders up until his instincts told him otherwise and then, well, he was usually right. Reyes couldn’t condemn him for that.

He gave in to the unspoken request that Jesse was nuzzling into his shoulder, finally lifting his arms to embrace the other man, hold him close and his ride out the last of that adrenaline rush that would leave him empty and exhausted. As soon as Reyes relented, McCree stepped in closer, arms enclosing his waist with a desperate squeeze, a grateful moment of weakness. 

_‘I’ve got you, it’s okay,’_ he wanted to say but his throat closed around the words and it came out as an unsteady grunt instead. 

“Yeah,” McCree mumbled into his shoulder, understanding, always reading between the lines. 

Brilliant. The best agent he’d ever had. Reyes squeezed him closer, fingers digging into the back of Jesse’s shirt, his nose filled with the stench of sweat and battle. Yeah, it was okay if he didn’t listen... as long as he always made it out alive.


	16. Dragon Power, Make up!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magical girl au drabble with Hanzo and Genji!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> request mermaidroru by on tumblr! 
> 
> _For the Drabble prompts! Hanzo and Genji as magical girls? |D Genji out fighting evil maybe and Hanzo still stuck on “why am I in this dress. Disgraceful. My left tit isn’t showing, how am I supposed to perform?”_
> 
> which is a good time to remind people that if you send me a request your chances of me writing something are pretty damn good atm

“I do not understand,” Hanzo said, arms held out at his side, as he inspected his new clothes. His bow furrowed. There was a circlet on his head, pinching just behind the ears. It made his frown deepen.

His brother _flounced_ closer, at ease in the bright green skirt and thigh-high boots that had little sparrow wings on each side. They helped him jump better apparently.

“You are a magical girl, like me!” Genji explained, looking far too excited. He had been doing this weird nightly save the city gig alone for three months now. “We can defeat the yokai together!” He gave a V with his fingers, probably just for the exuberant green sparkles that came with it.

“Yes, yes, I know all that,” Hanzo snapped. “I mean, _this_.” His hand waved across his chest, covered by layers of white and blue ruffles. “How am I supposed to fight properly like this?” The fluffy blue skirt did not seem to be very useful for battle either. “I want much less.” Though he was rather fond of the cute little black shoes and the dragon-scale embroidered stockings.

Genji shrugged. “You probably need to upgrade.”

“I - what?”

“Yeah, I didn’t get any armour until stage two.” Hanzo squinted at Genji, looked him up and down until his brother pointed out the extra shoulder tassels and long padded gloves that apparently classified as armour. “I got the scarf too.”

“You gained clothes, so what makes you presume I would lose them?”

“Just a feeling,” Genji laughed.

Hanzo mimed shooting an arrow at his brother and the glowing weapon materialized in his grasp. “Oh,” he said as his elbow caught on a stray ribbon when he tried to draw back the shimmering bowstring. The weapon dissolved into shimmering blue glitter as he flailed his arm to set himself free and a smug looking Genji had to walk over to free him.

“Well,” Hanzo said decisively, determined to make this work, “we should go kill some of those yokai.”

“Good idea,” Genji agreed, slapping him on the back in another shower of green sparkles. “It’s time to fight evil!”


	17. Tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rarepair request Hanzo/Symmetra!

The hallways lights were dimmed for midnight by the time Hanzo left the medbay, his steps dragging, shoulders slumping, and only the thought of what awaited him keeping him from simply sinking to the floor. The mission hadn’t been long, but it had been hard; mind and body stretched to their limits, the sight of small bodies splayed out in unnatural angles still etched into his brain. His injuries were minor; a pulled muscle, a bullet graze along one thigh, bruises peppering his skin. Fortunate; something he did not deserve.

Genji had barely scraped through the last battle. He had disappeared under a hail of bullets, and Hanzo had been certain that his brother, this brother both new and old, that he hated and adored in equal measures, had been lost to him again. But they were both still alive, despite the odds, and Hanzo was so very, very tired.

He stopped in front of a door and leaned forward, resting his head against the cool metal. After a long inhale, his hand lifted to the scanner. “Welcome, Hanzo Shimada,” it immediately chimed and he only had a second to straighten before the door whooshed open in welcome.

The small room was bathed in blue light, the product of a large holoscreen with numbers and text scrolling busily. Hanzo staggered in gratefully, the door shutting behind him, leaving him standing in otherworldly blue. There was a woman sitting with her back to him, her focus entirely on the holoscreen until she lifted one hand in greeting. The back of her hand appeared, fingers raised barely past her shoulders.

“You are well?” She asked, her tone short. To an outsider, it was cold.

Hanzo gave a tired grunt in response and her head tilted slightly, shifting minutely sideways before settling forward again.

“I am nearly done,” she told him.

He took another step forward, longed to reach for the dark hair falling silky soft down her back but he knew better then to interfere. He stared at the screen instead, understood the purpose of all the numbers but not the intricacies. Symmetra was a genius of hard-light, an architect beyond compare. He was always amazed. 

Wordlessly, Hanzo let her be. He entered bathroom, shed his clothes and put them neatly into the basket before entering the shower. He washed every inch, sloughed the dirt and grime and blood from his body, watched it run through his toes and down the drain. He scrubbed himself nearly raw, until his skin was red with his ministrations. The heat had steamed the mirror, droplets collecting from the ceiling.

When he left the bathroom, he was naked and perfectly dry. Even his hair was hanging fluffy around his shoulders. The bed beckoned, his longing a hard lump in his throat. He had to limp past Satya’s chair to reach the familiar space, and almost groaned with relief when he finally lowered himself onto the mattress. His body creaked, muscles protesting until he’d laid himself flat. Hanzo stayed there on his back, arms limp at his side, eyes closed away from the light.

He knew the moment she finished with her work, heard the so-soft sound of her bare footsteps approaching the bed. The mattress dipped with her slight weight as she settled beside him. Hanzo pulled in a breath, his chest rose with it, touched the tips of the fingers where he had known they would be hovering. As if that had allowed her permission, she flattened her palm against his skin and followed his chest down when he exhaled. The cool touch against his heated body was a blessing.

Her fingers explored, moved feather-light between his scrapes and bruises, pausing briefly whenever she found a new mark, as if willing it away. Eventually her palm found his cheek and he felt her shift again, hip pressed against his side and her prosthetic arm bearing her weight as she leaned inwards. Her kiss was so soft it almost wasn’t there, but his lips parted anyway, to let out the pained sigh he had been holding back.

The tears that he couldn’t shed, that he would never allow free for fear of breaking, pricked at the corners of his eyes. Satya tutted, thumb sweeping up, brushing a stray tear from his eyelashes before it could properly fall.

He finally reached for her, caught her wrist in his hand before she could pull it away and turned his head to kiss her palm. She hummed a soft, pleased sound.

“Rest,” she told him, her words a breath of air against his mouth. Her hair brushed against his cheek. He released her wrist, let her withdraw. Even when she stood, her calming presence was still there. It steadied him, lessened the pain of his scars both old and new. His eyes opened, parted only slightly just to see her and the fond turn of her lips.

“I am here,” she promised him, and he knew she wouldn’t leave.

His eyes closed again and exhaustion claimed him, sent him spiraling down knowing there would be someone worth waking up for.


	18. Satisfy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nsfw sexy times with Dragon!Symm/Dragon!Genji and a hint of Hanzo.

Genji is flagging. He is embarrassed to admit it, would be growling if he was at all capable of anything other than huffing and puffing, his hips now moving only through sheer habit. There’s an ache in his back and in his thighs, his shoulder muscles are cramping and his groin has been burning for so long he isn’t sure he even has a dick left.

Yet the dragon reclining beneath him seems almost impervious to his best attempts to please, her legs spread to give him access and her golden slitted eyes watching him with increasing impatience. There has only been a few occasions when she has made a sound of pleasure but he remembers them keenly, the way she let out a puff of breath, her claws digging into the pillows that surround them.

That seems like hours ago now and he is rutting like a dog, hunched over her from, head bent, lips curled back from his teeth. His long sinuous tail, laying limp and coiled, only the feathered tip giving the occasional flicker. He wants to please her, is desperate to please her, has never failed at something so entirely in his life.

The red dragon hisses, catching his attention and he doesn’t have the strength to so much as struggle when she suddenly flips them, bearing down on him with her full weight. She looms, imperious and unimpressed. That she has allowed him into her nest, to mate, is an honour and he is not living up to his reputation.

Her claws trail along his scaled stomach as she clenches down, a vice around him. Genji quivers, arching upwards, trying to give her something to convince her to stay her hand when it wraps securely around his throat. “I am getting bored,” she tells him, her voice flat and her eyes narrowed. “Can you not do better?”

Genji can’t squeeze a response past her pricking claws.

“I can.”

The voice is a blessing, sending a shiver of relief through Genji’s spine. His brother is there, naked and proud, just far enough away so that if he is rejected, he will be able to escape her ire. Symmetra assesses him, let’s them both sweat, until she apparently decides that Hanzo’s cock is more preferable than taking Genji’s life.

Her weight leaves him, her claw peels away, and for a second he thinks he has a reprieve, but she only shifts forward on her knees. She grips one of his horns in a tight grip, angling his head and she sits herself down, smothers him, her cunt red-hot and dripping wet. His licks instinctively, mouth instantly full of her taste.

“Very well,” he hears her say to his brother. “You may try as well.”

It will be a miracle if they both escape with their lives but it is well worth the risk. His tongue, at least, is not so tired, and Genji gets to work.


End file.
